#tag readers tell me if i should

[starzzmissthesun]

Little did they know I was thinking about bartylus...

[doverstar]

can't express accurately how happy it makes me that c.s. lewis did not leave room for many interpretations in narnia. it's christian and you can't get around it. susan chose to care more about worldly things than what matters and he said what he said. the lion is Jesus. evil is evil and good is good and people have to choose. and that makes some readers angry because it's nearly impossible to ignore and they want to ignore it. they want it to be something else and they can't make it something else without making it not narnia. love that. that is doing it right

[m1d-45]

will you promise that i'll see you again?

summary: your people refuse reason, and their damage refuses to heal. when it seems as if the whole world has left you, your dutiful knight still remains by your side.

word count: 2.3k

-> warnings: implied suicidal ideation (reader + unnamed side character), reader's previous deaths are mentioned in somewhat graphic detail

-> gn reader (you/yours)

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @yuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd || @rainswept || @wanderersqt || @rozz-eokkk

< masterlist >

“you’re one of the only things keeping me going, you know.”

dainslef turned to you in surprise, the even neutrality to your tone a sharp contrast to the rapid pace of his heart. he wasn’t a fool, he knew that the hunt had to be taking a heavy toll on you, but this…

this was more than he expected.

he knew he was one of a pitiful few who saw through celestia’s false puppet, who knew you for you and not their mirage. he knew that the entire world was hellbent on erasing you from existence, that you’d been forced through your own death countless times as teyvat pulled you apart and pushed you back together far from the scene of your would-be murder. he saw the golden scars across your skin, the dried remains of blood lining the wounds you hadn’t been able to patch yet. he’d been the one to wash them away, not minding the refuse soaking into his gloves if it meant your hands could be clean.

he recognized the dull exhaustion in your eyes, the same as the ones he saw in the reflections of lakes. tired, worn, barely there, hanging on by one solitary string that was wound so tightly around a desperate hand.

you had always been his reason for continuing. when the traveller broke down and the ruler of the abyss hid from the sun, you were there. when the chasm’s mud clung to his boots and the memories in his head burned as nails forced between his eyes, you were there. his rosary was kept tight to his chest at all times, familiar prayers pulling him up in the morning and forcing him to sleep at night. he was alive for far, far too long, but you made it bearable. you were his duty, his promise.

he never once thought that he’d be yours. then again, he never thought that he’d have to defend you from the ones you once called friends. time never did pass how he expected it to.

“…leading light?”

you looked down, twirling blades of grass around your fingers. he had led you up to a mostly desolate area of sumeru, west of bayda harbor. it close enough to the sea, forest, and desert that you could reasonably make an escape through any of those routes if need be, while also providing a rather pleasant view. the sky was bleeding red and gold as the sun sank below the horizon, a remarkable sight that fell on blind eyes. there was no use trying to enjoy nature’s beauty when he still kept one hand on his sword and both ears pricked for the slightest sign of danger.

you shouldn’t have to worry about your safety. you shouldn’t have to prioritize based on how likely you are to get hurt, or how easily it would be to make an escape. you still flinched when the wind blew a little too quick, used to it heralding armored footsteps and battle cries. in another life, you were welcomed with open arms, able to enjoy yourself without constantly being on high alert. teyvat did what it could to adapt; the air was still, frozen in time, barely a bird chirping for miles. it was meant to be comforting, he thinks, but dead silence was more unnerving than any breeze.

“i mean it.” he could hear every shift in his cloak around your shoulders, the heavy fabric doing little to soothe your stress. it was yours more than it was his now, to the point he felt claustrophobic wearing it. how long had he been traveling with you? the days blurred.

“i don’t doubt you.” he never would. never could. he’s not sure, even if he somehow wanted to, that his body would allow him to treat your words as anything less than fact. “but i don’t understand what you mean.”

you were a god. the creator, the first, the one that shaped the sovereigns scales and laid the foundations of earth. you predated the archons, celestia, the very skies themselves…

and he, somehow, was a driving motivation for you?

his words must have been funny, a sharp laugh tumbling out of your mouth. it was bitter, humorless, and somewhat raspy. he made note to find some water for you later. “what else could i mean?” you turn to him, some of his confusion lost as your eyes found his. even this burnt out, deep bags set beneath them, you still managed to steal the very air in his lungs. “you’re the only reason i’m still here.”

he didn’t know what to say. what was there to be said, when you were you and he was him? when the world had abandoned you, it made sense you’d cling to what remained faithful. it was merely coincidence he happened to find you first, that’s all. coincidence that you trusted enough not to run from, coincidence that you allowed to care for your injuries. there was nothing to say, because you held nothing for him in particular, only leaning on him out of need. he had to believe that. what was he left with if that wasn’t true? an awkward truth hid beneath his well-known lies, too large for him to see the edges, let alone to contain.

“please… do not say such things again.” to ask of his god what he could not ask of himself was surely some form of heresy, as was willingly laying aside his guard when he was the only one who was tasked with protecting you. he pulled his attention from the tide below, from the rustling trees, holding faith that the world would not be needlessly cruel. he stepped forward, kneeling beside you. even up close, you still seemed painfully small. “it is your own resilience that has allowed you to persevere.”

it’s the earth that leads you from danger.

it’s the water that follows you wherever you go.

it’s the leylines that whisk you to safety.

it’s the wind that warns you of what’s to come.

it’s the you from the past that protects the you in the present.

it’s the you in the present that provides for the you in the future.

it’s you, from everywhere and everywhen, continuing to fight.

and yet you sigh. you look away, across the sea, tracing fontaines skyline. “it really isn’t. i was lucky to run into you when i did.”

you had just crossed the wall back into the forest, burning hot and shaking. he was the lucky one, in truth, to be able to pick your figure out from the sand below. perched on a high cliffside, even mitachurls were reduced to small brown flecks.

you had worn a cryo mage’s cloak, which was what initially drew his attention. abyss activity wasn’t uncommon in the area, but a cryo mage in the desert… that was cause for intrigue. he stepped forward and slid down the steep face in front of him, a slight puff of dust marking his landing in the desolate sand of old vanarana.

he didn’t know what to expect. you stumbled around the jagged remains of a tree, heading for the statue of the seven. he followed, only growing more confused. cryo and dendro did not react with each other, and there was no way to “slow” a statue. a scouting mission, maybe? but why a cryo mage, when pyro would have been far more advantageous in the case of an attack?

he leaned around the corner carefully, prepared for the sight of a staff or the chanting of abyssal magic filling the air. the entire world seemed to be holding its breath, frozen in place and waiting for some trigger to continue.

he saw none of that. you were collapsed at the foot of the statue, faint wheezing only making it to his ears by virtue of the standstill around him. you held no staff, commanded no magic, your chest barely moving with air.

he’d never seen a mage seek out the archons when dying. one hand squeezed the handle of his sword as he crept forward, ready to strike should the situation turn against him. the sand barely shifted beneath his feet, his own heart sounding too loud to his ears. you did not move, showing no signs that you had noticed his approach. he still didn’t trust it.

your cloak was tattered and torn, with thick gloves atypical of a mage. they reminded him more of hilichurl wraps, which was strange considering you wore no mask. your face was instead covered by what looked like eremite cloth, just as stained and dirtied as the rest of your clothes. what he could see looked almost human; in another life, he could believe you were a weary traveller, lost amidst the sand.

he was acting foolish. if the abyss had a human tool, he needed to figure out why. he reached down, undoing the sloppy knot of your veil and letting the brocade fall limply to the grass.

…grass. he blinked, eyes flickering between the ground and your face, not sure which was harder to believe. flowers had bloomed around you, protecting your body from the blazing sands, and he’d be a fool not to recognize the face plastered all over every bounty board.

he didn’t understand. if nothing else, he thought the archons would have enough respect for their creator to know when they were being lied to, yet before him was barely living proof of the inverse. sweat beaded along every inch of exposed skin, deep-set heat exhaustion burning you from the inside out. how could you be a threat? how could they be so blind?

he looked again, the shine of elemental sight straining his eyes, catching flickers of the dendro energy pouring from the statue. you were the only one the archons would feed. you were the only one to make the very earth break its own rules, allowing lotuses to bloom from barren soil. something painfully similar to rage threatened what remained of his rationality, and it took all he had to push it aside.

that didn’t matter. if he went off on some banal revenge quest, he’d be no better than them. your safety mattered more. he picked you up and set aside how calm his curse felt, beginning the trek back to his camp. behind him, the flowers already began to wither, losing their persistence without you to foster it.

perhaps that initial meeting was luck. but these was no luck involved in your trust in him. when you woke up and saw him at your side, you chose to trust him. you chose to believe that he was not like the others, that he would protect you, and he was forever grateful for that trust. nobody could fault you for being angry, for being spiteful about what you were put through and choosing to lash out. nobody would have the right to be upset if you chose to vent your wrath against those that had hurt you.

but you didn’t. you chose, again and again, to believe in the world. you chose to let them live their lives, even if it meant getting hurt again in the process. you chose a quiet life traveling with him over the comfortable life on your throne. to willingly choose to travel with a disgraced knight to spare your people guilt… he couldn’t decide if it was noble or reckless. either way, he was selfishly happy that he was the one to stay by your side.

“i won’t try to convince you. but, please.. do not give up on yourself so easily.” i know far too many who have died by the same hand. “the world and its opinion does not define you. only you get to decide where fate leads.”

you lean towards him, and he thinks you might have passed out- but no, your head lands on his shoulder with far too much precision. he stiffens, not used to existence without a constant pain beneath his skin. “how motivational. you tell all your soldiers that?”

his heart is beating too quickly, thoughts unusually hard to grasp. you’re the only one who could have this effect on him. he only wished it wasn’t now, when your belief in yourself was on the edge. “i mean it. none of this is your fault, and neither are celestial actions the people’s fault. i know that you are hurt, but i don’t want you to accept that main needlessly. you shouldn’t have to view your creation with such pain.” slowly, carefully, he raises the hand closer to you, doing his best not to disturb you as he settles it on your arm. he’s can only hope that the contact brings you as much comfort as it does him. “if nothing else, believe me. promise you’ll at least try.”

he doesn’t think you’ll agree. why would you make a promise to one who represents the heaven’s betrayal? why would you let him hold you close at all, when you can surely sense the bindings of those who tried to kill you wrapped tightly around his soul? he doesn’t know. all he can do is hope.

“…alright, dainslef. i promise.”

twilight has long since fallen, and yet he smiles for the first time in centuries.

[toxintouch]

Kinktober speedrun time! Used the Mirror prompt on this list. Thank you for the inspo! Further details below the cut so that the above the cut stays safe for anyone who is just scrolling through!

18+ Content MDNI || Dom!Reader x Leander

PROMPT/KINK(S): Dom!Reader, Mirror Use. Edging/Orgasm Denial + Light Degradation & Name calling (Leander being referred to as a dog but he’s really into it, promise) + Power Exchange & Sub/Dom Dynamics

OTHER INFO: Leander has a dick, anatomy of Reader/POV Character remains unspecified; "they" pronouns used.

Leander has the straight backed posture of a man who was given etiquette lessons.  His mannerisms speak of wealth and class, yet they can’t help but observe that he looks completely comfortable while down on his knees.

His back muscles flex as he works himself, sweat slipping down his spine, pooling in the dimples just above his ass.  He’s strung tight, the veins in his arms straining as he strokes a quick, even rhythm.  His dick is flushed a painful red, copious amounts of pre-cum dripping down his wrist and splattering onto his thick thighs, some of it even dirtying the floor below when his strokes become too enthusiastic.

(They wonder how best to make him clean it later–he does so love to be ordered to lick up his own mess–but this floor is probably just as filthy as anywhere else in the Wick, despite appearances–and they don’t think they can find it in themself to make use of his mouth again after watching that.)

The full length mirror hanging in front of Leander is a new addition to the room. Something they’d wheedled out of him with nothing but an easy promise, whispered into his ear down at the bar.  It was theirs not a full day later: a polished brass antique with a priceless clear finish.

His back is to them, but they can see everything they need to by gazing at his reflection.

His strokes stutter, faltering, and they watch as his abdominals jump rapidly. His hand makes a few more shaky attempts before he stops himself with a shudder, breathing hard and squeezing his cock at the base to cut off his own orgasm. They give a little hum of approval, waiting.

“Count.”  They prompt, when he fails to remember on his own.  

They watch his throat bob with effort as he swallows, his jaw trembling around his answer.  “Five.”

“Good boy,” they say, their voice flat and unrewarding.  Dismissive. "Guess that Hightown education really paid off for you, huh?" He whines at that, his palms slicking along his thighs, awaiting their instruction.  He glances at them in the mirror, eyes hopeful. “Again,” they prompt, “and keep your eyes on yourself until I tell you.  During, too. You were closing them a lot. It's just you and the mirror until you've earned otherwise.”

Bites his lip, beginning to stroke himself again.

The next edge comes more quickly.

His eyebrows draw up, mouth falling open, back arching.  His cock jumps and this time he falls back onto his hands to keep from giving into temptation.  His eyes travel the length of the mirror, his neck taught with tension as he pants.  They notice his gaze darting along their form for a moment, greedily stealing along their silhouette in the looking glass. A quick glance of the place where their legs are splayed open as they lounge on the bed behind him, toying with themself idly.

He’s back to form so seamlessly, he probably thinks they didn’t even notice. The next number falls out of his mouth without prompting, as if to cover for his earlier sleight.

"..."

“Baby,” he whines, fidgeting without further instruction. His fingers return to his dick when they don't reply, ghosting over his wet, swollen cockhead.  He knows they hate the way that epithet sounds in his voice, the condescending lilt he manages to wrap around the syllables. “Sweetheart. Please, may I–”

“Bad dog,” they admonish.  They don't elaborate–let him figure out for himself which breach of protocol they're scolding him for.

“Again. And if you can’t behave, I’ll have to put you outside.”

18+ Master List | SFW Master List ✦Kinktober Speedrun on Ao3

Consider: this type of power play with yandere!Leander...you watching him when he's usually the one watching you...

[soupmanspeaks]

the topic of Helpy makes me go insane /pos like I have this headcanon that William/Springtrap just, DESPISED Helpy because William took heaps of pride from the Funtime line of Animatronics, he saw it as his son's crude mocking of HIS creations, when in reality its just Michaelangelo S Afton trying to use humor to once again cope with the horrors™️ Like I've probably said this here before but I headcanon that Helpy found his way into the PizzaPlex's marketing is because after the FNAF6 fire he just was under the rubble remarkably preserved or something and instead of going into the RockStarRow Museum, the FazExecs had dollar signs in their eyes and were like "yeah, that one will make us bank, ong" Ive also probably said this (bad memory sozzz) but a headcanon to go in tandem with that headcanon, is that Glamfreddy sighs in resignation whenever he passes by one of those Helpy monitors (he wasn't paid royaltys <//3 ) AND LIKE I GOTTA KNOW WHAT (glam)MIKE WOULD THINK OF THE ENTITY THAT IS SATAN DISGUISING HIMSELF AS AN AGENT OF LIGHT (Helpi) WOULD HE FEEL SAD? ANGRY? AT THE MIMIC? THE COMPANY?! please the topic of helpy is so interesting PLEAs-

[butchlifeguard]

swimming <3

just add water, katie ledecky / tumblr / me / "how swimming helped an ocd writer quieten their mind," oprah daily / "how does swimming help shape my body?" plunge san diego / "simone manuel has already won," the ringer / pinterest / tumblr / aristotle and dante discver the secrets of the universe, benjamin alire sáenz / instagram / the swimmer, john cheever / me

[rubra-wav]

Valentino Taxidermy

Click for better quality jfc what is this 💀

You as the reader fucking hate him so you kidnap him and cut off his wings. 👍 (I'm probably gonna write both of these because I have wanted to write gore, but like.. haven't found anything I would like to.)

Here's also the blood covered version. Decided the first one looked better in the end

OC shit/actual context in Dealbreaker under cut

Backstory/concept: Atlas (my OC), after freeing so many of Valentino's soulbound employees, finally snaps and goes after Valentino directly.

He tricks him into a deal with him, promising Valentino his employees back for 'something in exchange'.

Atlas does not elaborate on what that is, smiling warmly as he speaks honeyed words to the demon.

Valentino, not being able to clearly read the fine-print of the contract and just wanting his souls back, agrees.

As he signs it, Atlas grins, looking down and revealing his eyes behind the blackout shades he wears.

The red x's replacing his pupils and the horrifying glint of his fangs in the dramatic lighting of the meeting room are the last things the moth demon sees before a chain shoots from behind Atlas's and wraps around his throat, choking him out.

"Call me Karma as I enact retribution upon you, filth :)"

As he wakes up again, Valentino quickly realises the weight of his error.

Or should I say.... lack of weight.

Atlas has a giant ass room filled with butterfly and moth taxidermy so they go in his collection 🙏

[cestacruz]

Master Arturia AU doodles again because mechanical pencils saved me (also pretend that Arturia has the command seal on the right hand, thank you... i forgot)

[arsoooooonmun]

Sick Hearts, One Thump. — Teaser

— an Abby Anderson x Reader text fanfic

Working with Abby Anderson, aka your ex-girlfriend, was harder than you thought. Who knew she'll drunk text you repeatedly in the middle of the night?

Chapter 1: SHOT CHAPTER 1

Chapter 2:.......

[unma]

Saw the Epilogue for Liar Satsuki just now and yeah no, I was coping when I thought it'd make things better. I still can't believe Akira and Satsuki didn't end up together. After EVERYTHING these two have been through together. Komachi is not even slightly as relevant for most of the manga, and you can say what you want about both their abilities tying them together thematically and what not, but frankly the entire manga set it up such that Akira x Satsuki was the obvious choice.

[iwantyoutodegrademeplease]

Hello Mr bean the people have been wanting to know if we’re going to get a tummy Tuesday picture today?

you're insatiable, but fine, it's Tuesday after all... I'll just also use this as an opportunity to show off how intellectual and sexy my bedtime readings are I guess<3

[hanzajesthanza]

Bez krwi nie ma wampira. Jest to substancja, która decyduje o jego istnieniu, podobnie jak o istnieniu człowieka. Without blood there is no vampire. It is this substance which determines his existence, just as it does the existence of a human.

Maria Janion. "6. Krew i ciało," in Wampir: Biografia symboliczna. ("6. Blood and body," in Vampire: A Symbolic Biography.)

[numberoneanika]

Honestly the roleplay blogs are stronger than I am because if I saw a post where people were saying my blog was annoying and calling me corny I would jump in a large pit and rot away

[nocentis]

Black Arum ┆ Siegrain

Content warning: main character death, cannibalism, gore, toxic/unreliable narrator, highly canon divergent character portrayal. Read at your own risk. You will probably take psychic damage from this.

╳┆A lure was stuck in the soot between his lungs. Many times he'd felt the tug — enough that the wire fray had worn a rut where his ribs met — and many times he'd found her on the other end, reeling for remnants of him that no longer existed. She would aim to break him open, sift around in the cinders for those specks of him she wanted to confiscate, keep for herself, so that she could finally be rid of him. Once those flecks were washed and panned, the remains would reek like plough mud closure. For that reason he would come to her whole, every whit of ash accounted for.

A cherry little game they'd play. Her with flint and steel, eager to reignite that paltry spark of "good" that flickered freely for a lapse before he remembered himself. Him with tinder and kindling, letting it light only to call on the rain again. Her with just enough hope. Him with just enough time.

That resolve was so very compelling. More than her beauty, her candor, and even that glow he so loved to bask in — that luster he wanted to hold between his teeth and bury under his nails — more than that, her tenacity was a toothsome temptation, and he wasn't keen to deny himself anything.

So when he felt the pull, he caved to the beck and spooled the lisle. That day, the line seemed lighter, thinner, than it ever had. It should've been strong. Tensile. Instead it felt gossamer fine and just as frail, poised to tear at an ill touch, and he wasn’t exactly renowned for his gentle hands. Still, he gathered it with both palms and wrapped it proudly around himself like a ceremonial sash, grin scrawled across his face something devilish.

╳┆He found her lying in the shade beneath a long-lived magnolia, still and silent as she never was, with the color of her namesake spread around her head in halo streaks. Battle-torn, as she so often was, and yet uncannily... passive.

Anything he'd planned to say went out the airlock. Instead, he stood there with an anchor in his stomach, reaping the benefit of doubt.

Not a frown nor a sigh when he darkened her sanctum, only heavenward eyes tearless and unblinking and a resigned breath just short of peaceful. That worn tether waned phantom thin, light as helium, and the tension in his chest went slack.

There was no definite snap. No dramatic severing or ear-popping moment of clarity. Only the vague sense of loss so fresh a wound that denial was a numbing salve.

“Get up,” his voice a command, sandgrit against whetstone, thickened by an unnamed antigen.

The silence felt like mockery. A placid scene void of chittering fauna, clouds' drum, or even the most timid breeze. It wanted him to hear the absence of her breath and the stillness of her chest. It wanted him to hear the hollow. The empty. The nothing. Wanted it to resonate; to find the furthest reaches of his mind and clean them out until all that was left was this icy, clarifying silence.

He knew the end when he saw it. This was something much worse. It was robbery.

Her life wasn’t for the world to take. It was for him to hold in his hands. 

Something wet and pathetic slicked his tongue — some whiny, pleading thing — and it was stubborn as oil. The authority slid to the back of his throat and left him choking, “You are the indomitable Titania. You’ve laced fingers with Death time and again only to rise and slay and conquer, so get up.”

Her warmth was set to a slow drip, spilling from her in tired beads and seeping soundlessly into her chosen ground. Little whispers of her lost to greedy loam, sullied, never to be returned.

A waste of precious love. The sod won’t drink of her as he will. It will take of her and give back what? New “life” so fragile and fleeting? A feeble weed will take root, bloom its days few, and curl itself inside out? Pathetic. An insult to her legacy. An insult to the diamond-split sharp of her bladesoul.

His heart boiled over — popping, sticking, simmering sicksweet saccharine. It colored him cloying, flooded his mouth, and forced him to kneel at her altar.

"Please," he keened, hollow and morose, and his own pleading sickened him, “Say something.”

The sun trickled through the leaves like ichor, lighting up her black-blown eyes and the thin ring of honey surrounding them. Dim, distant, and dead as the moon.

His hand carved a path to her face, fingers featherlight against her fading flush. He brushed her bangs from her eyes and forced an unbroken breath through his quavering mouth. He traced each scar too faint to see and the parts of her skin their star kissed. Memorized the map of her face — each curve and crease, each fine hair, and every eyelash. He would carve out a space in his mind in her shape and fill it with the thousand sweet nothings he kept in his pockets.

He gathered her hand and threaded it with his own. When he opened his mouth, a rickety twine escaped from the deepest point of his chest, so he forced his jaws shut to keep the grief corked. He uncurled her fingers and pressed his cheek into her palm, trapping her there against his own scarred skin. His eyes fell shut as he breathed in this borrowed touch — this moment fated, stolen from him by this world's insatiable avarice.

He kissed her palm directly in the center; held it against his mouth and felt his own ruined breath echo back to him from the deepest grooves of her skin. Again, he begged, “Please, Erza.”

Of the armors innumerable now haunting this hallowed ground, this one least befit her. 

He revered Death. If there was a god, surely it was Death, he thought, for Death asks for nothing but life. The dead don’t know that they’re dead. They know a split second of euphoria and then a sharp, definite end. Isn’t that the work of a gracious god? One last stroke of color whether in peace or peril, and then eternal rest. Back to the dust you sprouted from.

But now he couldn’t see any of that beauty he often waxed poetic about. All he could see was change yet to come. All he could see was her, and he wanted her back.

He wanted her back, yet he knew better than anyone that there was no such thing as resurrection. While Death might be gracious, it was not generous, and it was not to be reasoned with.

The thought of her buried deep, bathed by the dark and abandoned to rot — it washed his mouth acid sour. It ate straight through his tongue and lingered in the roots of his teeth, burning, raging redhot in his jaws’ marrow.  A grave didn't suit her anymore than a pyre.

Soon she would be cold. Stiff. A feast for flies and their insatiable young. In the days to come, she would bubble and bloat and sallow. Her skin would loosen and slough off. The sun would bleach her bones. The meat of her would melt into oil and fat and bogspit. She would mix in with the soil, the groundwater, and this thankless magnolia would thrive.

It was tall, thick, with branches spread in all directions. The lowest of its limbs showed off the varied deep greens of its large waxy leaves, their undersides a chalky brown. A few white flowers bloomed, palm-shaped petals open in praise like they'd come to witness and worship. There was no question why she'd chosen to crawl here. It must've reminded her of home.

Despite its beauty, it was hardly worthy of her. Nothing in this ravenous world was. Her grave should be carved within his chest. There, he could keep her warm. He could host her in his veins. One day, they would wade the waters of woe together. Until then she could live under his skin.

He wouldn’t allow her to spoil. Wouldn’t place her gently into time’s whittlesome hands only to lose her peel by peel by rotting peel.

This world has taken much from you. Do not allow it to take her too.

A carnal ache etched itself into bone, a depth of passion he hadn't felt since he wrought for a false Heaven.

She is a fruit, ripe as a plum and twice the taste. Peel her open. There is a seed at her core. Plant it in your soot-field chest and watch her bloom anew.

What are these hands for if not this?

Flesh like sheets of silk. Muscle like rope. Blood like honey. Bone like an ivory trove. The splitting, the squelching, the straining, ripping, snapping; it burrowed marrow-deep and lingered there. Her chest peeled apart like jagged teeth, jaws croaking their rusted tune, and inside that redslick maw was the center of the universe.

The heart upon its throne, still as she, shielded by her precious lungs. It slid into his palm like it was always meant to be there. Raw, rich, and so very scarlet. Its sinews strained against his pull — those hollow vines that fed even the furthest parts of her — so he wrenched them free and draped himself in them like matchless finery.

Eat. Eat ‘til you’re sick. There’s a hole the size of her in the pit of your stomach. Eat until you fill it. 

What are these teeth for if not this?

Tough as leather; smooth as rubber. His teeth slid right off the rind and clicked together with nothing but metallic sheen between them. He gnashed at that ink-dripping muscle until he found a spot weak enough to tear apart. It tasted of rare meat and iron; a heady gore thick enough to drown in. He swallowed, gasped, and that first new breath felt like a blade.

The child inside him saw her split-open ribs as his cradle. He wanted to crawl inside, curl up, and die. He wanted to paint himself her color.

He lost his vision to the hot, angry wash. His own sobs were a distant sound, muffled by meat and blood and his own desperate fingers. He was numb in the mouth and in the shake of his hands, but he forced himself to eat, eat despite the choking, the gagging, the wet, weeping remorse.

Don’t you dare throw her up. Be grateful. Swallow and say thank you and finish what you’ve started.

He bit into his own palm, indistinguishable from her core, and he cried out in sour relief. His hands spread raw grief over his face, through his hair, and down his neck.

You’re no better than this starving world.

He curled into himself, hands clutching his own aching chest, and despite the cloudless sky, he called upon the rain.

[lividlilgirl]

The Foreigner in Wonderland

(First text post. I just needed to infodump some stuff. I love reading other’s AUs, HCs and what-ifs/Imagines/Scenarios of X and Y series etc. Tried fanfic. My job and life can’t so this IS gonne BE hectic. Hope anyone reading find it as interesting as I did.)

[💟 🦁]  /  🐙 🐍 /

The first thing you notice upon being conscious is being on fire. Next to the torrent of information you’re remembering. Or acquiring.

You are a servant. You’re name is... ███ That is your name right? Even so it feels alien to you. 

Back at hand, the cat-like beast shouts about you suddenly appearing, and for you to give him your robes. You can review the information given to you along the way.

- 

It was easy, getting Grim to settle down, though unwillingly. You meet the Headmage, to his surprise. He ignores you when you tell him Grim isn’t your familiar. Seemingly, more than happy to continue on, and so, the other coffins open up, with no fire this time.

Each student that weren’t a student at NRC already. You’re in timeout, seemingly for bringing a “rowdy familiar” with you, so you go up to the sorting hat last. Huh, another old memory. Your vessel’s chock full of refences.

“My name is  ███.”

“... There is more than one soul with this one. They’re full of magic but of unclear origins. Therefore no Dorm truly suits this one.”

-

Grim saw this as an opportunity to show his stuff. Saying how he should take your place in this school. You weren’t meant to be here anyway. You were summoned here, but by who? Who indeed. Whatever the reason, you know one thing. The will of this land wishes to be saved. So why not?

Headmage Dire Crowley, just as he was about to spout some other nonsense again you speak over him.

“This is a school for those with potential in magic, no? If you’re so gracious, would you allow me to choose my own dorm?”

For some reason, other than the history and facts of this world you also gained knowledge of some people of this land. Mainly The Great Seven and the Headmage. Disney! Somewhere inside you you can’t help feeling nostalgic.

✧*✧*✧

Heartslabyul

You thought it’d be a long process to get sorted into your choice of dorm. Apparently not, maybe cause you weren’t a student yet.

Feeling half sorry and half endeared by Grim, you Gracioused your way into getting him accepted into NRC. Much to your Housewarden’s anger.

Riddle doesn’t know what to make of you. He knows what to do if a student get put into Heartslabyul or chooses to transfer here. Not you though. So he pays extra attention and is slightly more strict towards you.

Ace taunts Grim, he disregards you when you showed to be more knowledgeable than him about the Seven. You defend Grim and it starts a one-sided fight.

Because of your superhuman speed, Ace, You and Grim get to cleaning the cafeteria. Ace does something he isn’t supposed to which brings Deuce to speak up about being good students. A Fight starts and property damage ensues.

By the end of the week though, you four become well acquainted. Because friends is a no no word for the bickering Adeuce duo.

Cater becomes acquainted with you guys easily, even being the one to mentioned the Ramshackle Dorm. Which becomes your hangout spot and where Ace decides to hunker down when he gets collared.

Since your abilities/”magic” or magecraft is different from theirs you speedrun painting the roses instead with just a brush. Cater is intrigued and wants to take more pics with you.

Trey as usual is brotherly to all, and you. He’s extra worried when you decide to challenge Riddle along with Adeuce and Grim.

You easily could have become Housewarden but you just want to prove a point, and it’s just a huge responsibilty. So Riddle Overblots early but no worries, your abilites were practically made to stop this!

In the end, Heartslabyul is just kinda family like to you and you enjoy their companionship fully

Savanaclaw

Leona could care less as long as you don’t interfere. He does know a strong opponent when he sees one. And not smell one, your smell is magic but also not. It also encompasses your entire being so- a headache for tomorrow. 

Ruggie’s tasked to get you to join their team and to go to practice. 

It also acts as a way to keep an eye on you. Thanks! He doesn’t have to baby Leona as much! Now he’s just tailing you. You let him, as he’s no threat to you. Which is also what gets you to eat more and act more human. 

You invite him to join you after a while, to which you become buddy-ish. Even if you hangout with Adeuce or just Grim more. Yeah, Grim is in Savanaclaw with you, so enjoy the catfights over food from Grim and Ruggie.

Jack is distant, he does his own thing. He’s intrigued by you but it’s none of his business. Up until you and Heartslabyul asks him about the potential foul plays. To which he gets roped into our investigation.

He admires your strength, tactical prowess and just overall and actual sense of Justice? He thinks? You say it’s just because you want to but... And as he makes a big deal of calling you an idiot, it’s no less admirable. Unlike the Adeuce group.

In the end you foul Leona’s plans, you still play magift with Savanaclaw which even things out a lot.

Though you do let the other dorms take their out on some of your members a little. Ha! Oh and this one Horned guy that nearly overpowered you during magift. Not that you were paying attention to him. You tried your best and both your houses tied. Phew! that was more of a mental workout remembering all the positions! 

You meet Cheka when you “wake up” in the infirmary. Diasomnia might have won if you didn’t block the last disk shot with your head. to which you “faint” afterwards.

You also take jabs at teasing Leona about being “Unca!” during this, while petting Grim as he got to participate in the matches. He got a little beat afterwards.

So Savanaclaw is just a group of housecats to you, and you enjoy as much of their time as they let you.

[x-neurodivergent-reader]

Headcanons: Loki x Autistic Media Fan

Anon’s request: I was wondering if you could do maybe a headcannons of Loki with autistic reader who enjoys anime, manga and gaming (Pokemon, BNHA, Death Note, Etc) due to it's their coping mechanisms and comfort since their childhood they even help them to learn to mask but once you talk about their interest they become more open and cheerful

A/N: Wooooo one request done! This one was the easiest one for me once I got started, since video games are also a massive interest of mine (although I haven’t watched much anime for a while now… I should make time to get back into it once I finish the uni year). Enjoy!

The reader here is gender-neutral.

Content warnings: None!

Tag list: @agent-barnes40​

In all honesty, a lot of anime and games likely wouldn’t be to Loki’s tastes – though that doesn’t mean he would ever stop you from enjoying them, especially when they’re so important for you.

Although if he catches you watching/playing something, there are some rare occasions where he might find himself staring at the screen for a while, more engaged than he had expected to be. Death Note would possibly be one of the series that he’s curious about.

There’s also some anime/manga he might come across where he genuinely finds the art style beautiful. He may suggest it to you, and even either watch it with you, or look through it once you’re done with it, just to look at the art.

The same goes for games that happen to stick out to him – whether it’s a bigger game like Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild or an indie game such as Gris, you may find yourself with the sudden feeling of your partner looking over your shoulder to admire the visuals.

If you’re playing/watching something with fighting, especially if it’s fantasy-related, you end up teasing him a little if he does stick around for a bit, because he can’t seem to stop himself from nit-picking the characters’ stances or moves.

A decent amount of your evenings are spent with him sitting on the couch, reading a book, while you’re leaning against him with your game console/controller or a manga volume, the two of you quietly enjoying your hobbies together for a while.

If he finds you playing/binging for too long, he’ll gently encourage you to take a break – especially if you’ve been looking at a screen for ages. He’ll offer to make you a drink of your choice, and let you talk to him about where you’re at in the media in question, so you can still enjoy it when you’re not consuming it.

In general, even though he has no clue what you’re talking about most of the time, he will listen to you rant about any big updates from a Pokémon Presents, or any other announcement streams. He likes seeing you so excited about the thing you love.

Will get you merch for your favourite media for your birthday/other celebrations. It doesn’t matter if that particular Nendoroid happens to ship from Japan and is incredibly expensive. He will find a way to get it to you.

He’s glad that you have something that brings you so much comfort, and will happily encourage you to indulge it. And if you find him low-key watching you play Pokémon Legends: Arceus, then that’s just a bonus!